


Christmas at Red Base

by agent_florida



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Christmas, Holidays, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/agent_florida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because even our boys abroad need to have a little Christmas cheer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Feliz Navidad

**Author's Note:**

> Sarge tries to get Lopez in the Christmas mood.

It was the sheer loudness of it that woke Grif up from his second nap of the day. It sounded like the track that had gotten stuck in the Warthog ages ago, but it wasn’t coming from the vehicle, and it had words to it. Annoying Spanish words, judging by the sound of it.  
  
He didn’t even bother pulling on clothes over his boxers as he stumbled into the Red Base common space, rubbing his head and dragging his feet. “The hell is that?” he asked, his voice still rough from sleep.  
  
“Ah figgered Lopez might be gettin’ homesick this time o’ year. You know, with it being Christmas and all.” Sarge stood up, Lopez’s helmet still tucked under his arm.  
  
“You don’t think you could celebrate a little more quietly?” Grif rumpled his shaggy hair.  
  
“Course not,” Sarge said genially, picking up his shotgun by the hand grip and deliberately cocking it as he walked towards Grif.  
  
“Líbrame de esta indignidad,” Grif heard Lopez’s muffled voice unit say from under Sarge’s arm.  
  
Grif stared at the head, blinking at it with sleepy eyes. “You do realize that Lopez is a robot… right?”  
  
“Sure! One of mah best creations, if Ah do say so mahself,” Sarge crowed, looking down almost lovingly at the robot head in his arms.  
  
“So why is it that he can only speak Spanish?” Grif complained as he shuffled towards the kitchen, looking for a Mountain Dew or some Oreos.  
  
“Because if he spoke English, then he could give all of Sarge’s plans and the transmissions from Command to the Blues if he was captured,” came Simmons’ voice as he stepped in from patrol.  
  
Leave it to Simmons to step in with a rational explanation for Sarge’s insanity. “But if he’s a robot,” Grif explained patiently, his head in the fridge, “then how can he be Spanish? Or Mexican? Or whatever it is that he supposedly is. Whatever.”  
  
“Are you trying to say that just because he’s a robot, he can’t be Spanish?” As Simmons came further into the room, Grif saw him take off his helmet and shake out his hair.  
  
The way the light gleamed off of his cyborg parts made Grif shiver a little, and once again a shotgun was pointed in his direction. “I didn’t mean – come on, guys…”  
  
“It’s tahm Ah make you appreciate some culture, Grif!” Sarge declared happily as he set Lopez’s helmet down and started rummaging in a cardboard box. Decorations with Spanish and Mexican emblems began flying out, and when Sarge came up for air, he was wearing a sombrero. “We’ve all got to wear these, or Lopez is goin’ to feel homesick, you hear me?” he said, handing them out to the other two soldiers in the room  
  
Simmons put his on gladly. “Absolutely right, sir. We should be respecting other people’s culture around this base.”  
  
And of course this would be the moment that Donut would stick his nose into everything, Grif thought to himself as he saw the pink private practically swish into the room. “You guys never respect my culture,” he whined as he picked up a sombrero and set it on his head at a jaunty angle.  
  
“… That’s different,” Sarge eventually grunted out. He was fidgeting with the sombrero on Lopez’s head a little more than was strictly necessary.  
  
“Agradezco el esfuerzo, pero esto es ridículo,” Lopez whined as the sombrero went this way, then that.  
  
“You know, Donut, I hate to say this, but I think you’re right,” Grif admitted around a mouthful of Oreos. “How come the only culture we ever appreciate around here is Spanish? Mexican. Whatever.”  
  
“Hawaiian isn’t exactly a culture,” Simmons said, taking the sombrero that had been held out for Grif and jamming it down on his head. “Now Feliz Navidad already.”  
  
“Hawaiian isn’t a culture,” Grif muttered to himself. “You know what, Simmons, if Hawaiian isn’t a culture, then Dutch-Irish isn’t a culture,” he challenged the maroon private. “That means you can’t put up your Christmas tree like you do every year.”  
  
“It’s better than nothing!” Simmons protested. “You’re so lazy you won’t even help me! Every year I try to put it up, something terrible happens, and you just stand there and laugh instead of helping me untangle the lights or drape the tinsel!”  
  
“Well, why would you expect me to help?” Grif pointed out, stepping closer to Simmons and enjoying it when the maroon private was backed up against the wall. “Not everyone celebrates Christmas the same way you do.”  
  
“Not like I would know how you celebrate it,” Simmons spat back, trying to get away from him.  
  
“Grif, stop makin’ my best soldier angry!” Sarge shot in abruptly, his shotgun aiming at Grif again. “Either do somethin’ about the decoratin’ or get out on patrol, dirtbag.”  
  
“Dude, does it look like I’m ready to go on patrol?” Grif said to Sarge, motioning to his boxers.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Donut piped up, taking off his sombrero and picking up his helmet instead. “I’ll take patrol. You get busy with the decorating.”  
  
“You know, I’m with Donut on this,” Simmons said, and Grif turned back on him angrily. “I don’t want to be the only one working with the Christmas decorations from now on.”  
  
“You know what? Fine.” Grif could feel his face heating up as he glared at Simmons; he didn’t realize he could get that angry just from a little exchange of words. But he certainly didn’t feel angry, he felt more like… like he had something to prove. “I’ll show you,” he muttered, turning away and throwing his sombrero off his head. “And change that music!” he hollered back to the common space.  
  
Sarge turned to Simmons, the look on his face perplexed. “How’d you get him to get off his lazy butt and actually get something done?”  
  
Simmons smiled as he watched Grif leave. “I just know what buttons to push, that’s all.” He didn’t mean to get so upset with his teammate, but if it would let him learn something more about him, he would do it all over again. And the way he had gotten so furious with him, pushing him up against the wall… He tried not to think about it; it made his face hot.  
  
“Simmons!” Sarge’s gruff voice interrupted his thoughts. “Stop blushing like a girl and go check on Donut! I havta… uh… do some work on Lopez…”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Simmons said quietly, slipping his helmet back on. Sarge left for the motor pool, and Simmons headed for the roof, where the pink private was probably trying to poke his eye out with a sniper rifle. He was glad the helmet could hide his small smile and the blush that was still creeping across his face. The thought of Grif decorating for Christmas made a little bit of holiday cheer swell in his heart… or at least he hoped that was what he was feeling.


	2. Mele Kalikimaka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif decides that it's high time that everyone on the base got to know his culture.

“Hawaiian isn’t a culture,” Grif muttered darkly, stumbling around in the poorly-lit storage room. “I’ll show him.” Why were there so many different kinds of boxes in here anyways?  
  
But eventually he found what he was looking for: two copy paper boxes with “D. GRIF” scrawled on the sides in permanent marker. He yanked them out from beneath their pile of boxes and didn’t bother to clean up after himself as he dragged them into the common space of Red Base.  
  
Was everything in here still the way he left it? It looked like it was. Here were the beach chairs, here was his Christmas pair of board shorts (green with red hibiscus), here were his inflatables. Might as well get to work on blowing them up, since there still wasn’t anyone around.  
  
Stupid Simmons. Why did he have to let the maroon soldier get to him so much? It didn’t have to be enough that he felt homesick around Christmas. He wondered how his sister was doing. Without having her around, he was lazy, but it seemed like Simmons wanted to kick him into action in her place. Was he trying to act like his sibling?  
  
It certainly didn’t seem like it. He blushed at the most inopportune times, and Grif couldn’t help but read something more into his jibes. Still, it hurt when Simmons told him that his culture didn’t matter. He missed home just like anybody else (except for robots, they didn’t have a home to miss, he reminded himself).  
  
So he angrily blew air into his inflatables, wondering where he was going to get sand from before he realized he could just drag some in from the paths outside. Stupid Simmons and his stupid remarks and his stupid blushing and his stupid… self.  
  
Two hours later, when Simmons came in from patrol, Grif had transformed one corner of the base’s common room into what looked like a tropical paradise. He was laying in a beach chair, an empty one beside him, in nothing but red and green board shorts. He was sipping at a Corona, sunglasses on his face even though he was inside. Above him, a giant inflatable palm tree’s fronds were swaying gently in the air conditioning of the base, and there were blinking colored Christmas lights taped to it at all sorts of weird angles. “Grif! What the hell is that supposed to be?” he yelled at his teammate.  
  
Grif let his sunglasses slip down his nose. “Mele Kalikimaka, asshole,” he said, too cheerily, taking another sip of his beer.  
  
“That… that’s not… I told you to do Christmas decorating, not turn the base into Cancun!” Simmons shouted, taking his helmet off.  
  
“This is Christmas, to me,” Grif pointed out.  
  
“But where’s the tree? The fir tree, with the white lights and the ornaments, and the presents…” Simmons started stuttering.  
  
“If it was a present you were looking for under the tree, I have the rest of this six-pack right here. Or, you know, me,” he said with a saucy wink, indicating the fake palm frond that was waving above his face.  
  
Simmons sighed, but it was becoming harder and harder to keep up the air of being exasperated. “Fine,” he said, taking off the rest of his armor piece by piece.  
  
But when he tried to step on the sand, Grif stopped him with a dirty look. “You can’t go on a beach without a pair of board shorts,” he said, as if it was obvious.  
  
“Well, I don’t exactly have a pair here,” Simmons admitted. He felt his face doing that getting-warm thing again. Was he really blushing again in front of his teammate? This was getting awfully old, awfully fast.  
  
“There should be an extra pair in one of the boxes. If you’re lucky, they might even be maroon.” Sure enough, there they were, maroon with white hibiscus on them.  
  
“Does everything you own besides your armor have hibiscus on it?” Simmons complained as he retreated down the hallway with Grif’s board shorts.  
  
“Ha! I totally knew you were checking out my boxers this morning,” Grif crowed from back in the common room.  
  
Simmons was glad he wasn’t there as he changed; his blush now wasn’t just covering his face, but spreading down to the parts of his chest that weren’t covered by metal plating. It occurred to him, while he was changing, that he had never been this unclothed around the base before. Unlike Grif, he actually slept with clothes on, and he didn’t make a point of going around shirtless.  
  
But when he came back into the common room, the slight eyebrow raise he got from Grif made it all worth it. “This is seriously what you do for Christmas?” he asked his teammate as he sat and lounged in the other beach chair.  
  
“Well, my family lived on the beachfront, and we couldn’t ever find fir trees that didn’t look like they were dying, so… beer?” he asked.  
  
“Why not,” Simmons agreed, reaching down to get it. But Grif’s hand was already there, and their cold fingers touched for the briefest moment before Simmons was able to grab at a bottleneck.  
  
“You’re turning red,” Grif said suddenly as Simmons opened his beverage. “Why are you blushing?”  
  
“It’s… it’s nothing,” he stammered. “I’m just hot from doing patrol. This is just what I need to cool me down.”  
  
“Right.” Grif clearly didn’t believe his lie.  
  
There were a few moments of silence as they lounged in their indoor beach paradise, Hawaiian-sounding music coming from over the stereo. Then Simmons’ burning curiosity got the better of him. “What did you say right when I came in the room?”  
  
“Mele Kalikimaka,” Grif said again.  
  
“No, I remembered that, just… what does it mean?”  
  
“It’s what you say on a Hawaiian Christmas day. It means ‘merry Christmas’, as far as I know.” Grif sighed. “I miss home.”  
  
“Yeah,” Simmons agreed. He missed his own Christmas traditions… why did Grif get to have all the fun? He’d have to put up his own decorations without any help, again, but so help him, Grif and Lopez weren’t the only ones with any kind of culture at the base. But if he wanted it to be a surprise… He started plotting his decorating in his head as he spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing with Grif, hoping that Donut was still doing all right on patrol and trying not to think about what Sarge was probably doing with Lopez.


	3. Christmas in Killarney

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons decides to show Grif how Christmas is REALLY done.

“Simmons, you have to explain something to me.”  
  
Simmons sighed as he straightened from adjusting the lowest string of lights on his Christmas tree. He had been hoping to get it done while Grif had nodded off for a few minutes. But like most plans around Grif, it wasn’t going exactly as expected. When he turned around, he could see Grif staring at him, more particularly on the worn back pockets of his fatigues. “What is it now?”  
  
“Just something that’s been bothering me,” he replied lightly, stretching out in his beach chair and adjusting his tanning mirror.  
  
“Like what? Why your Oreos keep going missing?” Simmons grabbed a box of ornaments and started fitting hooks on them so he could hang them on the tree. “Because if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, they only go missing because you eat them. See, when you eat them, they don’t come back…”  
  
“That’s not what I meant,” Grif said, a little touchy. “I wanted to know why you only have white lights on your Christmas tree.”  
  
Simmons looked it over as he placed the first few ornaments near the top. “Because that’s just how we do it in my family.”  
  
“But that’s so wrong! You’re supposed to use multicolored lights, everyone knows that.” Grif pointed up at his own tree as evidence.  
  
“Well, just because that’s how you do it, doesn’t mean everyone else does it the same way.” At least the first dozen ornaments were on the tree savely enough. But when he leaned down to get more, Grif started chuckling. “Now what?”  
  
“It’s just cute,” Grif said. “All of your ornaments are orange. It’s almost like you’re decorating the tree just for me.”  
  
Now that he mentioned it, Simmons supposed it was easy enough for Grif to assume that, but he was going to set him straight. “It’s not for you,” he grumbled, trying to face the tree as he decorated; he didn’t want Grif to see the slight blush he knew was spreading across his face. “It’s to use the colors of the flag of Ireland. I have green,” and he indicated the artificial pine tree, “and white,” and he indicated the lights. “Now I just need the orange.”  
  
“I’m right here,” Grif said sarcastically, stretching like a cat in his beach chair.  
  
“Not you, these,” Simmons said, ringing an orange set of bells before he hooked them onto a branch.  
  
“That’s another thing I want to know. What is it with you and Ireland?”  
  
“I’m Dutch-Irish,” Simmons reminded Grif, trying to keep the note of long-suffering patience out of his voice.  
  
“Yeah, but which half is Dutch and which half is Irish?”  
  
“Both of them.”  
  
Behind him, Simmons heard Grif do a spit-take with his Corona. “Come on, that can’t be possible. If you’re half Dutch, and half Irish, one of your parents has to be Dutch and one of your parents has to be Irish.”  
  
“Nope.” Simmons grabbed another handful of ornaments. “My dad’s Dutch-Irish, my mom’s Dutch-Irish.”  
  
“And where did they meet, some kind of club for Dutch-Irish kids?” It seemed that Grif couldn’t stop the sniggering, even if he had wanted to.  
  
“Actually, that was pretty much it.”  
  
“So, wait, why the obsession with Ireland then?”  
  
Simmons sighed. He could already tell it would take a long time to tell this story. “Well, my mom and dad both had family in the Killarney area, so we would always go there for Christmas. And, well, since I joined up I haven’t been back.”  
  
“You sound sad.”  
  
“You’d be sad, too, if you missed your family this time of year. At least your sister is in Blood Gulch.”  
  
“Yeah, on the other side of the canyon… wait, you have a sister?” Simmons could hear Grif sitting up straight, and when he turned around, he was draping his arms over his raised knees, looking for all the world like a child listening to Christmas stories.  
  
“Two of them. And three brothers.” When he turned around to get more ornaments, he saw Grif’s raised eyebrow and he had to say something. “We were raised Catholic. Every year we’d go to Christmas Eve mass, and then the party would start. We’d set up the tree, and hang garlands of holly and ivy. The house had rafters, not like the base here, and we would be able to deck everything out… There would be dancing, and all of the neighbors would come over. Even the priest would visit after mass and bless the house.”  
  
When Simmons turned back around, Grif was just gaping. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah,” Simmons sighed. Grif looked enraptured, but as he finished putting ornaments on the tree, he realized that he probably never had time for Christmas traditions like that. Between taking care of his sister and having his own life, he had probably never had time for family like Simmons had. “Sorry if I was making you homesick,” he apologized.  
  
“Nah,” Grif said dismissively, laying back on his chair. “Ireland isn’t my home, stupid.”  
  
The last few ornaments went on the tree without a hitch, and then the only thing left in Simmons’ box o’ Christmas was a dried-out and crusty sprig of mistletoe. “You mind if I look for the hook I drilled into the ceiling?” he asked his lounging teammate.  
  
“I’m not moving,” Grif mumbled.  
  
“The hook is right above you.”  
  
“Who said you could have your Christmas in my half of the room?”  
  
“Your half?” Simmons nudged Grif’s chair just enough to make him open his eyes. “Your beach is taking up more than half of the room!”  
  
“Not my fault I’m more Christmas festive than you are.”  
  
“Christmas festive – you call that Christmas festive? It’s a beach, Grif, not some Nativity scene.” He made his point by pushing Grif’s chair out of the way so he could reach up and put the little dried plant on the hook hanging from the base’s concrete ceiling.  
  
But of course, that had to be the one moment that Grif would bring up a hand to smack him on the ass. When Simmons made a noise of protest, Grif just chuckled. “What? It was right there, in the way of my heat lamp…”  
  
“Okay, that’s it,” Simmons said, his hands on the top bar of the lounge chair as he leaned over Grif. “You get your stuff on your half of the room, or…”  
  
“Or what?” And before Simmons knew what was going on, Grif had grabbed him by the ears and yanked his head firmly downwards.  
  
It wasn’t a kiss so much as Grif mashing his face against Simmons’ mouth. He was afraid to relax, afraid to let go of the chair, but whatever it was, it was exciting all the butterflies in his stomach. When Grif finally let go of him, there was a smirk on his face. “What the hell…” Simmons said weakly, his voice cracking. He knew his face had to be roughly the same color as his armor by now.  
  
“Come on, it was right there,” Grif said, bringing his hands behind his head and crossing one leg over the other. It was clearly a pose of victory. “You did put it right over my head, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yes… but… I…” Had Grif really reduced him to stuttering like a preteen with a crush?  
  
“Doesn’t that one song say something about cuddling under the mistletoe…?” Grif suggested as he shifted to one side of his huge lounge chair.  
  
“Um… yes… but…”  
  
“Simmons, I never thought I’d see the day when you wouldn’t be able to speak coherent English. Now sit.”  
  
Simmons gave him an eyebrow raise. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to be able to fit in that space.”  
  
“Why not? You’re skinny, I’m…”  
  
“A fat-ass,” Simmons said before Grif could finish the statement. He tried to sit down in the space Grif had left him, but it didn’t seem to be working out too well.  
  
“I have a great metabolism, is all.” And it was true; the muscles under his tanned skin really weren’t lined with fat at all, despite what his diet might lead others to believe.  
  
“I’m just surprised Donut isn’t pestering us,” Simmons grumbled. He was glad he was wearing a sweater and fatigues, else his skin and Grif’s would have been brushing together in places he barely dared to think about.  
  
“Yeah, usually if we do anything like this he’s all over us and teasing.” Simmons watched the expression on Grif’s face; it was almost like he was trying to think. “You think he’s all right, out there on patrol?”  
  
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Simmons reassured him. “Besides, do you really want him to bother us?”  
  
And Simmons was rewarded by Grif’s brown eyes looking at him in a deliciously evil manner. “Not with that mistletoe right there.”


	4. All I Want for Christmas Is You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donut hopes he gets to bake Christmas cookies with his new friend in Blood Gulch, and some people are allergic to certain plants.

Donut was glad he was on the roof of the base alone. He knew that all of his teammates would make fun of him for the music he was listening to, but right now he thought it pretty much wasn’t their business to be criticizing him.  
  
 _I don’t want a lot for Christmas  
There is just one thing I need  
I don’t care about the presents  
Underneath the Christmas tree_  
  
Even though the music was blaring through his helmet, he knew he had it cranked so loud that anyone within a five-foot radius would be able to hear. And was it really his fault that this was his favorite Christmas song, the one that reminded him of home?  
  
 _I just want you for my own_  
More than you could ever know  
Make my wish come true  
All I want for Christmas is you  
  
Of course, this song also made him think of the one person he wanted to be with for Christmas. Sure, it would have been nice to be home with his family, and he thought of his teammates almost like a dysfunctional family of their own, but it wouldn’t be quite the same without Caboose here with him.  
  
Over the past few weeks, ever since Thanksgiving, the blue rookie would come over and spend time with Donut. The pink private couldn’t figure out whether he had wandered over to Red Base of his own accord or if he had been sent there as a patrol. Whatever the case, he would always arrive and pull off his helmet, a huge smile on his face. Then he and Donut would run off and see what new things they could discover in the canyon.  
  
One day they had found a few butterflies flitting over a patch of taller grass, and Donut had watched as Caboose’s face lit up, the smile slowly dawning across his face. Donut taught him how to hold out sticks and catch the colorful bugs on them, and Caboose actually giggled when he saw that they butterflies turned into little sparks of light. Another day they had found a family of mice in the caves, and Donut had picked up a baby one and held it out for Caboose to pet. After teaching Caboose how to be gentle with it, he had watched as his larger hand closed around the little mouse, but not enough to keep it in place, and it had traveled up his armor to perch on his shoulder.  
  
Today, Donut had told Caboose to meet him here and they would bake Christmas cookies together. Baking was one of Donut’s favorite things, and fortunately, if he did it around Christmas no one complained about him being effeminate or homosexual; usually, they were too busy stuffing their faces. He wanted to share another of his favorite things with Caboose, but so far, the blue rookie wasn’t showing up.  
  
He put down the sniper rifle after scanning the canyon for the fifth time in fifteen minutes, and the song reset itself in his helmet. Sighing, he took a seat on the edge of the base’s roof, hoping that the respiration now fogging up his vision would go away soon. He knew he was being too nervous for his own good. After all, this was the first time he had invited Caboose to stay in Red Base instead of just running away, and who knew what Sarge would do if he found a Blue, even a harmless one, in his base? Yes, it was Christmas, but Donut knew never to take advantage of what might superficially appear to be a good mood; after all, this was Sarge.  
  
Once the fog on the inside of his helmet cleared, though, Donut saw Caboose standing there in front of him. He smiled as he took off his helmet, jumping down from the base and letting his armor take most of the pressure of landing as he ran towards Caboose. “What took you so long?” he asked, but his voice stayed kind.  
  
“Captain Croissant!” the blue said joyfully as he removed his helmet. “Church and Tex are making angry faces. But Tucker said I could go visit you if I wanted, because it was full of Christmas spirit.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think he only wants to eat our Christmas cookies.”  
  
Donut hugged Caboose as well as he could, opting for the waist instead of the shoulders since the other man was so tall and broad. “It’s okay. We’ll make so many they’ll get sick if they try to eat them all. Come on inside.”  
  
The confidence he had in his voice wasn’t enough to keep him from being suspicious as he led Caboose towards the kitchen in Red Base. Was Sarge still in the shed with Lopez, doing whatever ‘tinkering’ he usually did? Where were Simmons and Grif, and would they make fun of him for bringing Caboose into the base? But as Donut rounded the corner, he saw that, though the evidence of Christmas decorating was still present (a terrible clash of traditional and contemporary, Donut tsked to himself), the two privates themselves were not.  
  
It was unusual to be in the base by himself – well, himself and Caboose, who was currently going through all of the cupboards while singing off-key Christmas carols to himself – but Donut wasn’t about to question a good thing. “Okay, Caboose, are you ready to help me bake?”  
  
“Ready, Admiral Poppin’ Fresh!” And to Donut’s surprise, the ginger leaned down and planted a sticky peppermint kiss on his cheek. “What are we baking first?”  
  
There were so many cookies and sweets and pastries to make by Donut’s count that it didn’t much matter what they tackled first. Through the hours, both of them got dusted with all sorts of flour and sugar, not counting the handfuls they jokingly threw at one another. The kitchen, and eventually the whole base, started smelling like chocolate, peppermint, and sweets, and it seemed like every available surface was covered in pastries trying to cool from their time in the oven.  
  
Eventually, though, Donut knew someone would come into the kitchen and try and spoil his fun, and just as luck would have it, it was Grif who stumbled into the kitchen in only orange hibiscus board shorts. “Something smells good,” he mumbled, acting like he had just woken up from a nap.  
  
But when he tried to reach for a cookie, Caboose’s large hand smacked his away. “These are not for you to eat! These are for my friends at Blue Base!”  
  
“I wouldn’t call those people ‘friends,’” Grif grumbled, taking away a cookie with the hand Caboose had swatted.  
  
“Why not?” But when Donut turned around, there were more pressing things on his mind. There were red welts all along his teammate’s body, like he had been attacked by something. Maybe Sarge had gotten into a vengeful mood again… “Grif, what happened to you?”  
  
“What?” He looked down. “Um. I’m allergic to mistletoe?”  
  
Donut knew he was lying, especially with the pleading look on Grif’s face that plainly said ‘don’t tell anyone what you noticed.’ The icing on the proverbial Christmas cookie, though, was Simmons shuffling into the kitchen right behind Grif, wearing a maroon sweater with the turtleneck pulled up to his chin, his face the same color as the jumper. At Donut’s look, all he managed to squeak out was “Me too.”  
  
“Private Pastry, what is mistletoe?” Caboose asked from where he was sloppily icing a sugar cookie.  
  
“It’s this… plant,” Donut tried to explain as he brought another tray of very hot cookies from the oven, “that makes you feel more Christmas festive.”  
  
“Oh, no! Now your friends won’t be feeling like Christmas!” Caboose despaired as he licked his fingers clean of icing.  
  
“I’m pretty sure I’ve felt plenty of Christmas today,” Grif said, a smile on his face. The comment only made Simmons blush harder.  
  
More intruders into the Red Base kitchen made the dynamic a little more crowded than Donut had originally intended. Church, Tucker, and Tex had all stumbled in, linked arm and arm with one another, Tucker carefully between the two exes so they wouldn’t be clawing one another apart. “Caboose, what are your teammates doing here?” Donut whispered nervously. If Sarge found them all here, it was very likely that a Red Team member would get in trouble, and knowing Sarge’s moods, it wouldn’t be himself, it would be Grif.  
  
“I invited them over for our cookies!” Caboose said simply. He turned to Donut with a goofy grin, and Donut couldn’t help his own smile.  
  
“Where’s the eggnog?” Church asked, cutting straight to his point. He didn’t sound as crabby as usual, but he was still a little sharp, and Donut caught the stilted glance towards Tex and Tucker.  
  
“It’s on the top shelf, but it’s already…” Donut’s speech faltered as he watched Church open the container and begin chugging straight out of the carton. “Laced… with… brandy…?”  
  
“Church!” Caboose said in a chiding voice. “Why are you drinking eggnog? I thought you said Christmas would not be like last year! Last year you were angry. I had a turkey thrown at my head!”  
  
Church wiped his mouth after finishing off the carton, letting out a single hiccup as he slammed it down on the counter. “This year, Santa’s favorite reindeer is Blitzen.”  
  
“Oh.” Caboose seemed a little confused. “I don’t remember the names of Santa’s reindeer.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Donut said, removing his oven mitts so he could give Caboose a hug. “We’ll teach you again. Dasher,” he said, pointing to Tucker.  
  
“Bow chicka bow wow,” he seemed to agree, his arms now around the blushing couple of Simmons and Grif.  
  
And everyone laughed, even Tex and Church. Donut himself smiled happily. Everyone he was close with was in the kitchen with him at Red Base, sharing Christmas stories and cheer, even the ones who were usually too busy fighting with one another to notice any kind of joy. Maybe this was going to be a good Christmas after all.


	5. What's This?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarge wonders when it was, exactly, that everyone got to be so happy and started getting along.

After a successful ‘tinkering’ session with Lopez, Sarge was singing a little to himself, not much caring about the tune or the words. As he opened the door to the rest of the base, though, he could smell the aromas of savory cooking and sweet baking that had apparently been taking place while he had sequestered himself away.  
  
He followed his nose and reached the kitchen, where there were cookies spread out across every available surface. Some of them looked like they were done, others looked like they needed icing. “What’s this?” he muttered to himself. “There’s cookies everywhere.” There were so many dishes in the sink that they were piled high past the window, but from what he could see… “What’s this?” he asked again. “There’s… white things… in the air.”  
  
He turned the corner into the dining area of the base, which had been transformed with garlands of holly and ivy. The table had been made larger to be able to hold the guests that had come over for dinner. Sarge ducked in his head and counted, and sure enough, it seemed that everyone in that canyon except for himself and Lopez had been invited. He ducked out just as quickly, muttering to himself again. “What’s this? I can’t believe my eyes, I must be dreaming… there’s something very wrong.”  
  
A peal of laughter followed him as he retreated back to the kitchen. “Everybody seems so happy, have I possibly gone daffy? What is this?”  
  
As he left the kitchen, though, he stumbled upon the decorations that had sprung up in his absence. A fir tree and a blow-up palm tree were fighting for dominance in the small common space of Red Base. “In here they’ve got a few trees… how queer…” It might have made Sarge smile if he wasn’t so disturbed that his soldiers had become so in the Christmas spirit that there were dirty Blues in his base.  
  
Finding a surface that wasn’t covered in Christmas decorations, he set down Lopez’s helmet. “Vaya a divertirse, es Navidad,” the robot said.  
  
“This is a terrible Christmas!” he said to Lopez, though he hadn’t quite understood any of his comment. “First I come back and those dirty Blues are in my base, but not just that… they’re laughing. They’re having fun. And more importantly,” he said, making the action on the fist pump of his shotgun, “for this to be a good day Grif would have to be dead!”  
  
“No se puede matar a alguien hoy, es Navidad,” Lopez said again in his robotic monotone.  
  
Sarge was ready to go storming into that dining room and give those Blues (and Grif, who he was sure had let them in the base) a piece of his mind… or his lead… or something to that effect, but while he was trying to sneak in, he had inadvertently chosen a hallway where Simmons was hanging one last piece of mistletoe. “He’s hanging mistletoe,” Sarge noted to himself. Then Grif came out of the dining room, an obnoxious grin plastered on his face, and the C.O. watched as his least favorite person in the world kissed his favorite private on the lips. “They kiss?” He thought he might retch… or was that a different sort of funny feeling in his stomach? “Why, that looks so… unique? Inspired?” He couldn’t believe he had just used those two words to describe what he had just seen.  
  
Was Christmas really getting to him that much? Focus, Sarge, he thought to himself. Blues in your base. Shotgun in your hand. Piece of your mind. But instead of the usual screams and noises of war, he could hear music in the air, and the smell of cakes and pies was everywhere in his base. “The sights, the sounds…” Was it that his heart, like that green furry guy’s, was growing? The sensation in his chest was almost painful. “I’ve never felt so… so moved before, the emptiness inside of me is filling up…”  
  
He checked himself before he went into the dining room, though. If he let on to anyone that he was feeling Christmas cheerful, who knew what they would do to him today to take advantage of his generosity? So instead he came in, guns akimbo, roaring “What is THIS?”  
  
The table fell silent. Dishes that were being passed around were now held still, as if any movement might provoke the sergeant. Grif and Simmons sneaked in slowly, trying not to attract any more attention than they were already getting. There seemed to be several very audible swallows, and the only noise was the soft background music of Bing Crosby singing “The White World of Winter.”  
  
Then Caboose was brave enough to speak up, attempting to answer Sarge’s question. “Christmas Town,” he said, his voice almost endearing.  
  
“Sa-arge,” Donut’s voice sang, “come and sit down! We hadn’t even carved the turkey yet!”  
  
“It’s not a turkey, it’s just whatever left-over protein rations we had,” Grif grumbled. “When do we get to eat the cookies?”  
  
“Can’t you just be grateful?” Tucker griped, spooning whipped potatoes. “At least we’re all getting along for Christmas.”  
  
“Gettin’ along? Who said we all needed to get along today?” Sarge cocked his shotgun at the Blues (and Grif) in succession. “I don’t care that it’s Christmas, I just care that somehow, these dirty Blues got into my base!”  
  
“Sir, would it make you feel better to know that so far, they haven’t done anything sneaky or absurd?” Simmons asked meekly.  
  
“All that means is that they have somethin’ up their sleeves that they haven’t told ya about yet!” Sarge pointed out. He kept Church at the other end of his shotgun. “So why’re ya over here?”  
  
“Because my rookie,” he said, pointing to Caboose, “snuck over here while I was… preoccupied.” His stare at Tex didn’t leave a lot of questions to be answered.  
  
“I helped make the cookies,” Caboose said proudly, squeezing Donut’s hand visibly over the table.  
  
“What the – cookies?”  
  
“Sarge, why do you look so confused?” Simmons said gently. “It’s Christmas. Good will to all mankind and all that.”  
  
“But the Blues…” he said weakly.  
  
“Were just like us before they enlisted. Who knows, they could have been chosen to become Red soldiers if fate had worked differently,” Simmons pointed out.  
  
“Please,” Tucker said. “I’m a lover, not a fighter, and Christmas is my favorite time. Please don’t start shooting at us.”  
  
Slowly, Sarge lowered his shotgun, sighing as he resigned himself. “So where’s this turkey at?”  
  
“He’s going to carve the roast beast!” Caboose cried joyously.  
  
Donut smiled, patting his hand. “Something like that. Make sure he gets a big slice for helping us out today.”  
  
And when his plate arrived back with enough packed protein to cover its whole surface, the ginger smiled his large, goofy smile, making even Church and Tex snap out of their surly and angry moods and attempt a facial expression approximating Christmas cheer. “And God bless us, every one,” Caboose concluded.


End file.
